


Needs and Balances

by DeadishScribe



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Contact, Leshen - Freeform, Peasants, peasant idiots, peasant not so idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 04:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadishScribe/pseuds/DeadishScribe
Summary: A witcher of my own creation belonging to the Griffin School, Antony of Beauclair, takes on a contract from a small village. Pretty routine... or at least he thought it was, until the current paradigm between witcher and monster may just flip on its head in the nearby wood.





	Needs and Balances

**Author's Note:**

> While the limited violence isn't graphic, there are vague descriptions of lighter-if bloody-wounds. That being said, please, enjoy!

“But master witcher, we can’t pay that!” 

“Unfortunate, but it’s my price” he didn’t want to be hard, he hated it, but if he weren’t he’d never get a fair wage. 

“Don’t you think you’re being unreasonable? We can’t afford it…! Er, with all due respect, o’ course, master witcher” Antony stepped just a tad closer. Not enough to get in the peasant man’s face—if for no other reason than to avoid the stench of rot protruding from his mouth—but not so close as to be inches apart, “Well I can’t afford it.” at that the man cocked his head and it was clear that further explanation would be required, “I can’t afford for neither me nor my horse to go hungry or my gear untended to. I’d be out of the profession” 

“I understand that, sir, we our own needs, which is why I must refuse such a price. We bare’ make do with the crops we sell, if there’s any left.” This was going to be another tough sell it seemed. 

He sighed, looking away, “Alright… two hundred crowns” 

“Two hundred?!” 

“Yes, two. Better than the three, no? I’m risking life and limb to hunt what has already killed three of your men and terribly wounded two more” common folk, for some reason, always thought it’d be a good idea to hunt monsters on their own. Oh how mistaken they are, “From what you tell me, it sounds like a leshen, and leshies are dangerous things, no matter their age” 

The old man before him weighed and considered his points, which Antony thought were quite reasonable, “Put that way, it makes sense. The matter of the fact, though, is that I doubt we even have that much coin” 

“Whatever coin is missing from the sum can be made up for” That made the villagers pull into themselves with fear, “No, don’t take the women and children! Please! I beg of ye!” Why did they always think witchers were out for people? Sure, the Law of Surprise often ended up with a child being given as payment, but that wasn’t nearly as frequent as commonly thought. 

“No no, I mean possessions. I struggle to feed myself as is, you think I want more mouths?” 

The village seemed to release its anxiety, if only slightly. People always make a fuss of everything, even the imaginary. More than frustrating to be certain, despite being a collateral of the trade. Did he wish to starve them? No, but neither did he wish to starve himself. Again, a sudden end to his profession that would be unwelcomed. If her were to die on the job, he’d much prefer a climactic showdown with a great beast. Perhaps Dandelion could immortalize it in song and verse. 

The elder went to the rest of the inhabitants, whom all debating amongst themselves for several minutes, though no more than ten, before he returned, “It be agreed. Two hundred for the head of the… what were it called?” 

“Leshen” 

“Right, two hundred for the head of the leshen, or whatever we can make up for the difference. We’ll hunt for the coin while you hunt for the creature.” They shook hands, nodded, and parted. Antony climbed upon his mount with ease, if a bit stiffly. The last battle had yet to leave him. His horse, Sunder, was a broad-shouldered mare of nigh pure white, just under twelve winters. A faithful companion who proved to be surprisingly calm in the face of danger. She was clearly descended from some breed of warhorse, though he never learned which. He didn’t care to, she was there with him, and that was what counted. Antony had met many a human less courageous and far less loyal on far too many occasions. It was a joy to have her by his side. 

First they trailed the edge of the woods three hundred yards from the dwellings, keeping their eyes peeled for anything unusual or disturbed; broken branches, trampled grass, disheveled bushes. Little came of it aside from the regular coming and goings of the village folk. The freshest were the smallest, clearly children’s tracks. That was the intriguing part of the contract at hand, the part he couldn’t refuse—only adults had ever been harmed, never the children. They played there to this day, or at least at the edges of the wood, despite the forbiddance of their parents. Leshen would shred and tear any trespasser, regardless of age. Physical descriptions and the accounts of the two survivors matched a leshen, yet the behavior was far from typical. Another fascinating specimen. They had been appearing with greater frequency, ‘fascinating specimens’. Disconcerting to say the least. A sign of change on the wind. 

Antony dismounted, patting Sunder off to a nearby patch of grass worth grazing. She never wondered far; it was no concern to him. But a few feet into the trees, however, revealed a promising start. Tracks, leading right to the edge from the heart of the woods, only to double back. These were no human prints either, but that of a leshen. A young one if he had to take a gander, though hefty in build all the same. From the depth of the indentation into the moss of the surface soil he determined the weight of the thing. Just above average, for a fully matured leshen that is. Witchers usually loved a good mystery, and this was no exception as it only thickened the deeper he ventured. The branches rising high above were filled with song, yet there were no calls of ravens or crows. Even the youngest of leshens had a solid flock or murder of black birds. They made for excellent spies to spot those who would encroach upon their territory. True, their fierceness for land could not find a match in the natural world, and even rivaled that of most magical creatures. Upon pondering, he gathered a new thought. A young leshen could be shy, very much so in fact. All he had to do was find the totem. Classic strategy to deal with leshies. 

The tracks weren’t terribly difficult to trace, and eventually lead him to the totem. It was smaller, newer than most he’d seen. There was the possibility that his prey was merely settling in. It would account for the odd behavior, however, he wasn’t buying it. Something didn’t add up, not one bit. This was made more apparent by the sensation of a gaze resting on the back of head. He spun around in the same motion of drawing his sword. Silver, of course, steel would be next to useless. Clear as day, it stood there, imply standing. Antony braced himself, lowering into a position of easy defensive but decisive striking. The leshen simply stood and cocked its head one way, then the other. The hell? Slowly, cautiously, Antony stood straight once more. There was no shame avoiding a fight that need not be, and it was to be admitted that his curiosity was getting the better of him. One step after the other, he sheathed his blade before he was standing ten, maybe eleven or twelve feet from his target which still stood still. Its body creaked in response, shifting its shoulders as it adjusted to better view the witcher. 

“… Hello?” 

The leshen did not speak, though that came as no surprise. What did, though, was the creature raising its right hand. Not in hatred or anger, but in peace, much the same way humans did. Antony mimicked and the leshen’s head cocked to the side once again. Then as the right hand lowered the left raised, and Antony copied the motions again. 

“Can you understand me? Who are you?” Instead of answering with another movement, they creaked once more. Not in the way as before, but from beneath the mask of a stag skull. Quiet at first, then louder until it met the volume of the witcher, then louder still until it echoed throughout the trees, let alone the witcher’s chest. 

Again, the hell? 

“Take it easy there, big guy… never known a leshen to speak. Not even sure you have vocal cords” 

The leshen made a second attempt. This time it seemed more controlled, if still as inhuman as before. Creaking honed into more solidified sounds. Focused effort eventually led the leshen to a more conclusive result, “H… He… Heeelllooouuu” it wasn’t ear piercing, though it certainly wasn’t comfortable either. Still inhuman, but that was to be expected. 

“Astounding-” Antony quickly, if cautiously, pulled out his ragged leather-bound notebook. His charcoal pen scribbled away, making note of the typical versus unique traits, 

“-first communication between man and leshen, well… mutant and leshen” 

A gleam of inspiration sparked across his face before he began scribbling frantically, more so than before. His mutagens may have called to the creature—as unlikely as it most likely was—on account of the children having no such mutations. Then again, they’d not make contact. 

“A… Auust-” human speech appeared to be a struggle to no surprise, leading Antony to assume that it was precise creaking—for lack of a better term—which was replicating the sounds he now heard, “-Astd.. Assstoouuund… Astouuunding” the leshen made stride after stride. ‘Hello’ was simple enough, but astounding was comparably more complex. Antony doubted there was any understanding of the words, as it seemed more comparable to a babe learning from those around it, a babe who had a penitent for emphasizing the ‘u’s of a given word. Another noteworthy feature. 

“Very good! Don’t force too hard, wouldn’t want you get any cracks now” the witcher gave a soft yet hardy laugh from the gut. When the leshen copied him, it simply sent shocks down his spine. Well meaning curiosity turned into what most people assumed spirits must sound like. It wouldn’t be far off either, though he made no reaction. Scaring the poor thing would do no good. 

“Cra… Carahck” perhaps his words sounded odd, but it seemed more akin to an accent than anything else, “Ver… Very gooooud”. The speed in which the leshen was picking up his vocabulary was nothing short astonishing. He went from rock troll to disoriented werewolf with little difficulty. Impressive. It was almost terrifying in a way. Points of reference were the key to breaking down any language barrier. If the leshen could understand that much, it would mean a whole new field of study for the taking. Antony could already feel the envy of Oxenfurt scholars, a truly joyous sensation. 

He decided to go with something simple, common, and familiar to the leshy, picking up a stick to methodically move it back and forth between them, “Stick. Say it with me now, stiiick” 

“Sti-Stick. Stiiicck” the thing’s pronunciation was still horrifying, but that would pass. Hopefully. 

“Very good! Now, let’s see-” the man placed the stick down with care as to not offend his new acquaintance. He may be friendly, but a witcher never forgets his teachings. This was a monster he was dealing with, not a human child but a child of the Conjunction. Looking around once more, another object was quickly apparent to him, “Leaf. Can you say leaf?” 

“Say… leaf” 

‘Specimen has now moved on to saying words with their respective syllables on first attempt within minutes of contact. True understanding has yet to be determined’ he wrote. 

It seemed to be the leshen’s turn to take the initiative now. Leaning down, he placed a few more sticks in front of Antony, it was not long before he recognized the shape; it was a symbol not uncommonly found on leshen totems. What it meant was a mystery, but it was an attempt all the same, “Home? Does that mean home?” with his words he raised his hands referencing the trees around the two of them. 

The leshen took a moment, and then another, and then another, all the while observing the human before him. Finally, a single, branch like finger raised and pointed directly to the totem, then to the trees around him, “Hoooume” still on with those u’s it seemed. 

‘Understanding in communication established with certainty’ he wrote, continuing with a depiction for the leshen symbol of home and writing the word itself beside the pictograph. Odd, recording that leshies have their own written language. Taking the idea further Antony wondered if the creaks and groans normally heard were in fact not the cries of a creature, but words in and of themselves. He wondered how many times he’d been insulted for trespassing, and an odd shame formed within his chest. Antony shuddered the sense off and continued his notes, ‘It is my hypothesis that subject youth and exposure to humankind is source of open curiosity, much like certain populations of wildlife surrounding large villages and smaller cities.’ 

His friend took the lead once more, reaching down to rearrange the sticks of language. They formed an inverted triangle with a stick running down its center. The symbol was incomplete, however, as made apparent by the addition of freshly shed needles to form a ‘v’ with the points sticking from the two lower faces of the shape. The translation was finished with the leshy before him pointing to the shape, to itself, then to the totem. Antony followed the directions and formed the suggested conclusion, “This shape, is you?” he realized that meant nothing to the being and followed it with his own pointing to the leshen, “you?” 

The leshen referenced itself again with a motion, producing a deep groan accented with mid to light pitched creaks and clicks. Another example of the leshen language. He really didn’t have enough words to describe this interaction, not in the slightest. 

“Alright, gonna have to work out that particular pronunciation later” he paused, looking at the leshy before looking to the ground. Just afore the pictograph for… whatever their name was, he drew out his own name, upturned from him of course so the leshen would read it properly, “Antony. An-to-ny” 

It was repeated with very little effort and was rewarded with a few short claps, which were repeated again, though slower and with volume. He just hoped that wasn’t mistaken as part of the language. Then again, it was entirely possible he was mistaken about any part of what the leshy wished to convey. 

Before long, unfortunately, they sat in silence, a standstill in conversation. What next? How could he continue the exchange? There was a fear it would break down, perhaps with the leshen losing interest or attacking him altogether. His brain wracked for an answer, a solution. When one had stuck, he had no choice but to run with it. Slowly, hesitantly, Antony reached out with an upward palm. Lo and behold, the leshen didn’t mimic the action, but placed his hand on top in understanding, “Friends. You, Antony, friends” once again, points of reference were key to breaking down the language barrier. Hopefully he could make his own leap of comprehension. “Fuuuriends” excellent, utterly exceptional. Groundbreaking would be a mountain’s worth of understatement. 

Eventually their hands parted, and Antony backed away with a bow. This creature did not deserve the blade, it was clear now; he was not acting in bloodlust of his territory, he was defending himself and his home. A thin line of distinction, but a distinction all the same. He wasn’t entirely comfortable doing so, but he turned his back as he produced an apple from one of his larger purses. The leshen took a step, a considerably more aggressive step, as Antony walked to the totem. Understandable, but the leshen’s tension subsided when the witcher merely placed the apple before it. A form of offering. 

He bowed again, starting the way he came, but not before the leshen stopped him with a single word, “Furiends” 

He nodded to the forest spirit, “Very good, friends. I’ll be back, you can be certain” and with that, he continued walking with a wave behind him. Antony could feel the gaze of the leshy once more, though it eased the more distance he gained until he finally felt it no more. Sunder was behaving, as per usual, having stuck to the patch of grass she had been when Antony first traipsed into the wood. Taking note of the sun’s position, and given the fact that it was just past noon when he had reached the forest line, he figured it had been two hours, no more than two and a half. 

Antony mounted Sunder’s saddle once more, urging her back towards the village. How he was going to explain this, he had no godsdamn clue. What explanation he mustered was met with spittle and raised voice, “What?! You let the fuckin’ thing live? What sort of shite witcher be ye?” 

“The kind that doesn’t take kindly to insults. If you’d listen and make an attempt to-” 

“No, no listening, you didn’t fulfil the job and ye shan’t get paid” somehow, he’d made more progress with the leshen over the span of several hours than he did the village elder over the span of several minutes, who was behaving considerably rude by comparison. 

“You’re right, and I don’t expected compensation. All I ask is that you let the thing be” The elder was growing ever redder in the face, much akin to a bloated tomato. Obscenities were thrown and more spittle shot with the force of a Nilfgardian bolt. Antony didn’t care to listen much, “That thing killed three o’ our boys—my son included—and you want it let alone?” 

“Sounds about right” 

Peasants sure were clumsy, the boy behind him may as well have shouted that he was coming at him, even if Antony were lacking his augmented senses. With ease, the man spun around, clasped the tool in the crook of his arm, and snapped the thing as a twig. It was nothing more than a sharpened stick to begin with. Pathetic. The boy, no older than sixteen, went pale in the face, paler than any the witcher had seen. The site of both him and the makeshift ‘weapon’ were enough to distract him with amusement, giving a few chuckles before a warm sensation ran down his side, just above the hip. The trickle was all too familiar to Antony by this point, and he simply, slowly turned his head back to the elder. The bastard had stabbed him. It was the elder’s face which now went an unearthly white. Sadly it wasn’t unusual to him, once he’d been jabbed in the back of his ribs, barely scathing the surface of his right lung. 

Antony’s gaze was more than enough to enhance the effect, “That was foolish, old man. I’d advise that you’d not try anything of the sort again if you wish to-” he found himself interrupted by a blow to the back of the head. Rude. Again, peasants were being damn stupid. Surprise, surprise. 

It seemed the boy had made another attempt to strike him, this time succeeding. Another warm trickle made its way down the back-right side of his neck and down the collar of his breastplate, then that of his shirt, which was of little consequence. Kids are stupid, and it was only rational he’d wish to rid both himself and his village of a potentially lethal problem. The old man, on the other hand, had no excuse as he plunged his knife once more between the creases of his armor. He was met with a gauntlet to the face which gave a satisfying crack in numerous places. A shriek followed as the womenfolk scattered with their children in tow whom instead wished to watch the fight. 

The witcher growled, ignoring the boy entirely to lift the elder up with a single hand clenched around a portion of his burlap tunic, “What did I say? I’d guess I’d be well within my right to cut you down” the fear of the gods flashed through his dulled eyes, plagued by cataracts, “but I won’t”. More guilt shot through his chest as he placed the man down on his feet, though his legs refused to support his weight in terror, resulting in him tumbling on his ass. Again. And again, the boy went to make a third strike, this time easily blocked by the witcher’s hand, “and you. I admire your bravery, but it is ill guided and quite frankly foolish. How did you think this would go, hm? In your favor?” 

The boy mumbled, his eyes darting every way that the witcher wasn’t. 

“As I said, I admire the bravery, but one must know when a fight is winnable. In this case, it isn’t. Your strongest men already fell hunting the leshen—whom simply defended himself I might add, he’s far more docile than most—so even the numbers do not favor you. Let this be a lesson” with that, he let the stick go. It dropped in front of the boy, clearly giving up on the effort. Antony decided that the next course of action was to pull the damn knife from his side. He hadn’t lost too much blood, but leaving the wounds unattended would be ill advised nonetheless. 

The witcher could do nothing to stop the bleeding with his armor in the way, thus he did his best to unstrap it. Sunder came galloping in at the same moment. Her horse senses had called her once again. He let her trample the soil around him for a few moments before stopping her. They had both given the villagers a rather transparent message. 

_Don’t fuck with us._

He winced as he unlatched the side of his breastplate. Twisting to do so already delivered pain along his side, twisting away from the wound to undo the other would surely be worse. Antony was distracted once again. One of the village girls had been peeking from behind a wall. Eventually she had come to the decision that it would be wiser to aid the witcher than hinder him. Unbeknownst to him, she quickly made her way to him from behind to undo the rest of his armor. He flinched away, prepared for another blow, but none came. Instead she stood there, clearly terrified but determined to stand her ground. It seemed they were all of brave stock. Commendable. Another villager brought a stool to them and set it behind him, both urging to sit. He complied, and as a result the rest of his armor was eased off and onto the ground, making the bleeding noticeably more apparent than before. The elder’s face now shown his own guilt. He looked away, crawling back to an aged woman, most likely his wife. 

The girl who had first approached him lifted his arms to remove his shirt. Once having done so, leaving smeared trails of crimson on both his ribs and neck, the other brought fresh water and cloth. This would be payment enough… ignoring the fact that they had inflicted the wounds on him in the first place. It seemed a rather sudden shift in attitude. Witchers had a tendency to quell hostilities just as much as facilitate them, though these folk seemed smart enough to learn quickly. The women did, at least. Fortunately, the knife was meant to cut cheese rather than flesh. The injuries weren’t terribly deep, let alone traumatic, and would heal soon enough. No suturing required, only a good cleaning and dressing. During the process, Antony’s skin chilled beneath their touch, growing goose bumps as their fingers barely grazed over the scars of his side and back. It was not sensual, sexual, or anything of the sort, simply curious. Alright, perhaps a bit sensual, but mostly curious. He figured there was no harm in it. 

They didn’t linger long, either having gathered their fill of exploration or were too timorous to continue on. It was of no difference to him. He was bandaged and rested, which was all that mattered. He did not, however, redon his armor, and rather strapped it to the back of Sunder’s saddle. Soon he mounted it once more, although with plenty of wincing and under breath swearing. Advice was given to the village, warning them to not provoke the leshy as they had, and all should be well. Leaving gifts at the edge of the wood—especially young saplings and seedlings—wouldn’t hurt either. They seemed to listen, the women apologizing and bowing profusely. Antony waved it off, they had learned their lesson. He told them that he intended on returning to check in on them, his leshen friend, and how they were getting along. They thanked him for the help and wisdom, making certain he knew they would welcome him next he visited. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but humans were always full of surprises. The last the village folk saw of him for several months was that of his silhouette atop of proud horse sauntering off into the hues of a harvest sunset. Damn though, he wished he had been paid. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this work, please leave kudos and comments! I'll make content regardless, but it's encouraging, motivating, and makes me want to work that much harder. Your support is more invaluable than you know!
> 
> I'm really happy with this fic, and while it may not be very polished, I'm proud of it all the same.
> 
> Love,  
> the Dead Dude <3


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